href="#litres_trial_promo">Fifty-Three
When one man dies, one chapter is not torn out of the book, but translated into a better language.
—John Donne, Devotions Upon Emergent Occasions
I’ve killed three men in my life. One the police know about, two that I’ve kept to myself. For the fourth time in three months, I had blood on my hands, and all the forgotten images of the dead were swirling back to me.
This time, however, I wasn’t doing the killing. I was in the middle of Easton Ave., trying to pump life back into a man I used to drink with for hours on end.
He was bleeding from the nose and mouth. He wasn’t breathing. I could feel his ribs crunch with every compress of my hands on his chest.
I couldn’t yet hear the ambulances and Robert Wood Johnson Hospital was right down the street.
I yelled, “Someone call nine-one-one!”
But I knew it was too late, and Gerry was gone. Dead bodies look different from live ones. I should know.
***
The Olde Towne Tavern was pretty crowded for a late Monday afternoon. Standing in the back, under a dimming Budweiser neon light, two college kids played pool. To my left, leaning against the stained wooden wall, two guys discussed baseball and the greatest American rock and roll band at the same time. It was impressive. A young couple sat at a dirty table finishing their lunch. Gerry sat next to me, and bought me a Heineken. He had his cup of coffee, and the breath to go with it.
We were celebrating.
“Accepted, huh? Gonna be a freshman at twenty-seven years old?”
“Twenty-eight.”
“Whatever. It’s still old to go to college. But I’m proud of ya. Can’t keep this private eye stuff up all your life.”
“Hey, I have to pay tuition somehow.” Not that I was getting many cases lately. When your face is plastered all over the news and most of it isn’t good, the clients aren’t exactly knocking down your door.
I decided to come to the tavern for lunch today after getting my mail. I pulled out one of those big envelopes that high school seniors pray for. Opening it up, I found a letter that began, “Dear Mr. Donne, We are pleased to announce your acceptance to Rutgers University . . .” Best news I’d had in two months.
I drank my beer and Gerry blathered. Eventually, my burger would show, I could eat and get out of here. Gerry’s a nice guy, but grating when he starts to get a rant on.
“Never went to college myself. Had a war to fight. Fucking Korea.”
“I remember, Gerry.” Gerry talked about two things. Korea and his former life as an actor.
“So, tell me about this college thing. What are you going to do? When are you going to start?”
I finished my beer, still waiting for Artie to bring me my burger. “Probably start next fall. In September, once I get all of the tests out of the way.”
Gerry shook his head.
“You have to take an entrance exam. See what classes you can take,” I said.
“Then what? You take your classes? Get a B.S. Ha! Get a B.S. in BS.” He slapped himself on the leg, let out a short chuckle.
I gave him a smile. “Probably be an English major.”
“How’s that going to help you? What can you do with an English degree?”
“We’ll see.”
He plunked ten bucks on the bar as Artie finally brought my burger.
“Well, Jackson,” Gerry said, “I best be going. Gotta get home.”
I heard the door swing open behind me and he was gone. I poured some ketchup on my burger as Artie flipped a switch behind the bar. The Stones popped on over the speakers, “Beast of Burden.”
“That guy doesn’t shut up. Been coming here since I bought the place,” Artie said with a grin. “I love that guy.” I took a bite of my burger.
In New Jersey, especially a busy town like New Brunswick, there is a lot of traffic. Brakes squeal all the time. So I chewed and swallowed, listening to the Stones, until I heard the crunch. Like metal hitting something hard. Artie and I made eye contact just before the screaming started.
I dropped the burger, bolted out the door.
It was a warm day for mid-April, most people walking around in T-shirts and jeans. The sun heated my skin and stabbed into my eyes as I made the adjustment from the darkness of the bar to the bright afternoon. People stood on the sidewalk, staring. Some young coed screamed. No one was moving.
In the middle of the road Gerry lay in a prone position. Blood streaked down his face. His eyes were closed. I couldn’t tell if he was breathing.
Traffic had stopped in Gerry’s direction, one car about twenty feet from him. It didn’t have a dent in it.
“I can’t believe the guy just drove off,” someone was saying.
I raced into the street, I knelt next to Gerry, my knees digging into the asphalt.
“Someone call nine-one-one!” I yelled.
It had been too long since I’d trained in CPR. Four years since I was a cop, too long since I’d had to do anything remotely like this. I’d been surrounded by too much death over the past few months, and not enough ways to save life. I hoped muscle memory would kick in.
Pressing my fingers to Gerry’s neck, I tried for a pulse. I didn’t feel anything. Then I turned my head, put my ear to his nose and mouth. He wasn’t breathing. Gerry was in trouble.
I opened his mouth, shut his nose, and breathed twice into his mouth. His blood pasted my face, and something told me I was doing the procedure wrong. I didn’t care. His chest went up and then let the air out. No other reaction.
Down
